


The Long Way to Heart's Home

by ricca_riot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Chant of Light, Devout Inquisitor, F/M, Mild D/s, POV Cullen Rutherford, Porn with Feelings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricca_riot/pseuds/ricca_riot
Summary: "Go as you must, as must we all, but know that the only thing worse than a faith broken, is a faith untested."—Correspondence and teachings of Mother Hevara, Val Royeaux archiveDespite their victory over the demons and Red Templars in the Arbor Wilds, there is no sign of the Inquisitor on the long march back to Skyhold. When she interrupts his prayers in the chapel, Cullen finds the courage to confront what she means to him.





	The Long Way to Heart's Home

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Trebia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trebia/pseuds/Trebia) for her editing and perpetual words of encouragement. This would not be what it is without you.

Men may die but the army lives on. Despite the Archdemon’s efforts to the contrary, so does Cullen. When the smoke clears, the dragon is gone and so is Corypheus. Scouts scour the wilds while the wounded heal and the dead are burned. They return empty handed. No Corypheus. No Inquisitor.  Cullen takes the news with all the stoicism demanded by his position, waiting for solitude before clasping his hands in a brief and desperate prayer. They haven’t found a body. That has to be enough for now.

It’s a week’s march north and west to Skyhold from the Arbor Wilds, and with each day it becomes harder to keep himself calm when the reports come in: still no sightings of the Inquisitor or her party. It’s as though she has disappeared from Thedas altogether. As the Frostbacks grow on the horizon, he forces himself to see the truth.

_Gone. She’s gone._

For all he knows Corpheus has slain her in some dark corner of reality and ascended to the Golden City—they are all dead and it just hasn’t sunk in yet. Cullen swallows bile at the thought and orders the troops to move out. His heart is stone when the sunset shines off the distant walls of the Inquisition’s fortress. If the Inquisitor truly is no more, Leliana will know.

“Shall we break for camp, Commander?” Captain Sully’s question turns his focus back to the present. Skyhold is still small in the distance. He cannot idle in miserable speculation while the men under his command are still vulnerable on the rocky paths.

“Rest them for a quarter and then we march on.” Cullen tries to force a smile and feels it distort around his mouth, mangled by his temper. “Let’s get them home, Captain.” The truth is one last hard night’s march away.

“Aye, ser.” The man touches his fist to the silver sigil of the Inquisition over his heart and turns away, bellowing orders at anyone in earshot.

Cullen leads the march himself, holding a flickering torch aloft as the flames bend before wild mountain winds. It’s a long hard climb up the final incline and across the narrow bridge that tethers the ancient fortress to the cliffs. He’s numb—physically, emotionally, spiritually—by the time he crosses under the gates into the courtyard. Delegating the details of putting the soldiers up for the night with a nod, he strides with terrible purpose to Josephine, where she stands on the landing of the great staircase leading up to the keep. “What news of the Inquisitor?”

The Ambassador’s golden eyes widen, perhaps at the desperate tremble in his words. Hope wars with despair, the same cruel stalemate of the last few days. “The Inquisitor? She arrived back here nearly five days ago. She wishes to speak with us -”

The news shatters something he had thought unbreakable and Cullen breathes out slowly as sound and sensation trickle back in. “I see. Thank you.”

“Cullen…”

He waves her off. “Tomorrow, unless she wills it otherwise. I am aware that we have much to discuss. Excuse me, Ambassador.” Her frustrated huff isn’t quite as grating as it might have been ten minutes ago. Cullen moves through his final duties for the night mechanically, collecting the reports for review, adding them to the heaping pile of correspondence that always grows rampant in his absence. He reads more than a few as well, equal parts illuminating and horrifying.

When it is late enough to secure some privacy, he treads through the keep to the little chapel tucked behind the garden. Tapers glow at the feet of Andraste and he’s on his knees in supplication before the door has even swung shut. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” That they won—that she lives—is a miracle beyond dreaming. He can never, ever, take the incredible feats that follow the Herald’s wake for granted. For all her skill she needs but fail once and they are all lost.

Blowing out a ragged breath, Cullen blinks water out of his eyes and bows his head in prayer. He cannot exalt in the news, they lost too many men to the army of Red Templars and demonspawn. They will lose many more before this is over. Someday Evelyn Trevelyan will ride away from him and she won’t come back and someone will add her name to the memorial growing along the eastern wall. That the last council of war wasn’t their last parting is blessing beyond compare, but the void that ripped open in his chest at the prospect of such a loss terrifies him.

His offering clinks gently in the carved wooden bowl nestled between the candles, and he murmurs the names of the dead. “Maker, let their spirits pass gently beyond the Fade. Let them sit by your side. Let their names not be forgotten while I live.” Something tight and ugly eases in his chest and he can give voice to the Canticle of Benedictions without pain. Forehead pressing against the hard metal of his clasped gauntlets, he utters the words etched into his heart. “Yet all before me is shadow, shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond, for there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

The Inquisitor’s voice joins with his, so soft he almost thinks he imagines it. When it ends, she clears her throat and he can hear her soft boots scuff by the door. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. A prayer for you?”

She apologizes as though this isn’t her stronghold, as though she has wronged him with her presence in this place that is hers moreso than it will ever be his. “For those we have lost.” Cullen bows his head. Confession has never been his strong suit. “And for those I fear to lose.”

“You’re afraid?” Evelyn (he cannot bear to use her title in his thoughts right now, it has no place in the sick relief that grips him upon being in her presence once more) sounds surprised and he can’t imagine why she would think of him as anything else.

“I thought you were dead.” His voice cracks under the dread weight that has been his life the last week and he’s on his feet, crowding her space without conscious thought. “No one could find you—not a word from the scouts—and then you’re here and alive…” Evelyn hasn’t flinched from the sudden invasion, nor his words of anger but he still feels like a beast as he tries to calm himself.

Cullen tries again. Control. That’s what’s important right now. The Inquisitor has done nothing to deserve his temper. “Of course I’m afraid. Corypheus possessed that Grey Warden at Mythal, what more is he capable of? It’s only a matter of time before he retaliates. We must draw strength wherever we can.” He faces her truly for the first time in far too long. She stands not quite at attention, a perpetual reminder that she is no soldier—far more given to lounging against whatever’s closest than at a parade rest—and studying him with grave intent as he takes her in. Alive. Unwounded. She glows under the flickering light, hair shining red against pristine white silk. For moment, he swears he’s gone mad, uncertain if he beholds an image of Andraste or her Herald. It’s sick. This war, this world, him, everything that threw an innocent like this into the maelstrom of chaos is damned.  “When the time comes, you will be thrown into his path again. Maker preserve me, I must send you to him.”

“I do this by choice.” Her correction is gentle, but absolute. “The Maker hasn’t guided me this far to die without purpose. In this, I believe.” Evelyn quirks her mouth, a touch of humor that separates her from her divine calling again. “Besides, I have luck. Remember?” She dips a hand into the small pocket in her breeches and candlelight shimmers off the silver coin he gave her months ago.

Cullen manages a weak chuckle at that. “Somehow, that’s less comforting than I’d hoped.” She steps into his arms, uncaring of the grime coating him from the long march home. “Whatever happens, you will come back.” All he can do is believe this strongly enough for them both. He presses his mouth against the soft skin of her neck, breathing her in.

Resting her head on his shoulder, Evelyn sighs. “I certainly hope so.”

“The thought of losing you...” There are no words to detail exactly what that loss would do to him. The knowledge is not a burden he would have her carry. Corypheus must be defeated, whatever it costs them. His damnable voice catches in his throat again and he tightens his arms, pulling her against him until she should be protesting the buckles and hard armored edges digging into her thin shirt.

Instead she slides her hands up, guiding his face away from the dark sanctity of her neck until she can draw even closer and press a kiss against his mouth. It should be sinful, to hold and kiss her in full shameless view of Andraste. Cullen sneaks a side glance at the statue, illuminated by candles below and the moon streaming in through the stained glass above as she raises her arms in blessing. If anything, the kind stone face seems to approve, as though she’s about to smile upon them. He can only hope it’s a good omen.

“Nothing he has wrought shall be lost.” Evelyn murmurs the words against his lips, sealing the threads of prayer with a kiss just on the wrong side of chaste. “Nothing.” She slides her hands over his chest, a saint of lips and tongue and teeth that leaves him breathless—stunned. It’s all he can do to hold fast, palm the sharp angle of her jaw and anchor his hand to the small of her back. There’s a flush to her cheeks when she pulls back, eyes shining with holy fire. “However this ends, Cullen, we will find each other again at the Maker’s side.”

With all his heart, Cullen wants to believe that she is right, that there will be a reckoning, a reward for the sacrifices they have made. That after all is done—their bones turned to dust and their names forgotten by history—there will still be something for their lives given freely to His service. Maker knows a lifetime isn’t enough to spend loving a woman like Evelyn Trevelyan, and even that little time is not promised to them. Through her faith he gains strength, fear overcome by her certainty of ultimate salvation. “Thank you.”

Evelyn presses her lips to the vulnerable skin just below his ear, above the warm metal collar of his gorget. “Come with me.” She moves away as though reluctant, leaning in to extend the contact even as her feet pivot and she shifts to begin walking. She doesn’t lead him by the hand, that would simply be ridiculous when he knows the layout of the keep as well as she does, but they walk as equals in companionable quiet back through the empty halls.

Pausing, her hand resting on the door that leads to her personal appartments, Evelyn turns up to him. “I won’t keep you any longer than you wish, Commander.” Cullen gives her an unimpressed look, unwilling to give into this light foolery in the wake of everything that has happened. Let them be honest with each other. She huffs a tiny laugh of acknowledgement—at what he hopes are the words he hasn’t spoken and not at something embarrassing he has done unknowingly—and touches the silverite plates on his forearm. “I do not want to be alone tonight. Stay with me, please?”

He is an ass for pressing the plea out of her. Lady Trevelyan fits so well into the molds the world has carved out for her that the one labeled ‘person’ is often lost between the rest. Only the world’s greatest fool would force her to admit that weakness aloud. He must be better. “I would not wish to be anywhere else in the world.”

The lock clicks open under her hand and she smiles back at him. He follows her awkwardly into the empty stone antechamber, locking the outer doors behind him. Two staircases open into an enormous living space well-lit by glass lanterns and a crackling fireplace. The possible lines of assault steal his attention first: stairs connecting to the Great Hall, a small window high up that opens on the roofs, double doors to a balcony that may or may not be accessible from the grounds below. To his uncultured eye, it seems lavish, all thick rugs and bright dyed hangings, strange creatures carved along the pillars and eves and a majestic view of the mountains beyond the stone balcony.

“Welcome to my home, ser.” Evelyn performs a flourished Orlesian bow standing alone in the center of the carpet. Not quite the picture of relaxation, she sticks her hands in her pockets and looks around with him, as though taking the place in with fresh eyes. “It seems a bit silly to have so much space stand empty most of the time, doesn’t it? I asked Josephine to tear it out and have it made into something more useful: a proper office for you or housing for people who will actually live in it. You’d have thought I killed her puppy when I suggested it.”

Babbling about the décor throws him off balance, the arrow-straight rigidity of her posture unnatural and uncomfortable. She seems off, restless and unhappy in a way that makes him feel worse than useless. She asked him here; it’s obvious, even to him, that she needs something. Even if he doesn’t know what, he cannot stand by and do nothing while she’s in distress. “You should have a home here, Evelyn.”

“A home isn’t Antivan rugs and Orlesian silks.” She grimaces.

Cullen gathers his courage like armor and steps onto the rug in question with muddy war boots, draws her back into his arms. The tension unspools from her shoulders as she tucks her head under his chin and rubs her cheek against the rough fur draped over his shoulders. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, red strands silk-soft against his mouth. “Is this… good?”

She bumps his chin gently when she nods, doesn’t seem to notice his struggle with words that don’t come. “I missed you.”

A big, stupid grin stretches his mouth before Cullen can clamp down on it and he turns his face so she won’t see just how much her words mean. He shouldn’t be smiling, shouldn’t be glad for being a distraction from the business of saving the world, shouldn’t be pleased to be her weakness. “I missed you too.”

“At least you were on the road, doing _something_ instead of being cooped up in a tower like some damsel eating bon-bons.” She thumps his shoulder, forgetting the armor he still wears.

“Is that what you were doing?” Cullen knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t contain a snicker as she shakes out her hand. The mental image of the Inquisitor reclining on a lounge nibbling on trifles and being entertained like the idle rich is too absurd not to laugh at.

Evelyn pulls back enough to give him a disgusted look. She’s shamming, he’s quite sure. “I may as well have been. Lectures from the Knight-Enchanter and Morrigan. Touring the defenses. Spending coin at the local merchants. I joined some local patrols around the Frostback passes to just get out, but those were quiet too.”

“It sounds like you managed your life of leisure well enough.”

“I should have ridden out and met you part way.” She shakes herself free of him and crosses to a pretty little carved table by the pale leather sofa, pours wine from a pitcher into two waiting glasses. He holds the delicate stem in heavy plate gloves as she takes a long slug from hers. “I’d rather fight a dragon, two dragons, even, than be stuck waiting for someone to tell me if you’re alive or not, keeping face in front of everyone when I can barely breathe with the uncertainty.”

Cullen catches her wrist as she makes another violent gesture and the full weight of the Inquisitor’s frustration scowls at him. “Now you know what it’s like.”

Her eyes widen at that and her mouth makes a very small ‘o’. She shrinks until the towering thunderstorm of anger is a chastised young woman once more. “I… I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”

The wine is good, dark and strong, cool against his dust-coated throat. He sets his glass back down to open his arms to her again. “You don’t need to apologize. You’re more than worth waiting around for.”

“I’m glad you think so.” This time she takes a sip and sets her glass down beside his. Her eyes flick over to a corner hidden from view by a painted wooden screen and she looks back at him. “I don’t really know how to ask you this, but there’s a bath back there. It’s still hot. Would you like to...?”

“Is it big enough for two?” Somehow he doesn’t stumble over his words like an idiot and is rewarded with a sly look and flush high on her cheeks.

“Let’s find out.” Her mouth is wet and sweet with wine when she kisses him again and sets to squiring him out of his armor with a will. The myriad straps and buckles holding his metal shell and sword belt give way to clever fingers, pieces lined up in marching order along the wall. His hands are light when she drops his gauntlets to the floor and tangle their hands together, skin to fade-marked skin.

Her lips brush over his battle-scarred knuckles and Cullen shivers at the reverence of the touch. Air ghosts along skin that’s all but forgotten the feel of anything but a long sword’s hilt. The reversal of position is absurd, beautiful and blasphemous. She would look on him with anything approaching worship when he’s merely a man, more lost and broken than most. He belongs on his knees before this woman, beneath her boots if that’s what she wills. Instead she elevates him, lavishes him with gentle touch and kindness.

Breathing out, slow and controlled, he runs his knuckles down the sharp line of her jaw, curls his fingers into her hair and slants his mouth against hers. Evelyn opens to him, teeth teasing against his tongue as her fingers scramble against his vambraces and chestplate. Gripped with urgency, he joins her, shedding armor down to shirt and breeches as fast as he can while being kissed senseless. _Maker’s breath,_ he can feel her nails digging into his shoulders, raking along his back under the sweat-creased linen. His cock is hard and heavy, straining against the constriction of his pants and she’s pressing her hips against him, seeking more contact. Bath forgotten, she crowds him towards the long low sofa as her hands pick apart the long road of gleaming golden clasps holding her tunic shut. “Shirt off, if you please.”

The growled order makes Cullen’s mouth dry, his knees weak. Shaking with anticipation, he obeys—the unwanted garment is tossed away and he sinks back into cushions, the leather cool against his burning skin. Evelyn stands over him like an Alamar goddess of old, white shirt hanging open, breasts swaying as she skims out of her trousers, boots, and smallclothes. Gloriously bare, she straddles him, knees planted on either side of his thighs. In this position she looms over him and Cullen has to tilt his head back, bare his throat, to look up at her.

His hands fall naturally on long lean legs, muscles clenching at his touch as he glides up along all the interesting concavities and convexities obscured by armor. Evelyn takes her time exploring him in kind, switching between soft touches and the strong drag of her nails until he writhes beneath her. He knows desire demons better than many, they are nothing compared to the saint staring down at him now. She curls protectively over him, no demon—not her, Maker, never her—pressing a kiss to his temple, a sinful lave to his earlobe that has him biting his tongue to keep quiet and rocking helplessly up against nothing.

Do something. The thought clamors in the back of his mind, pulls him back from the brink. So intent on his pleasure, Evelyn moans outright when he presses his hand between her legs and draws his fingers along her slit, teases a slow circle around the place she had showed him.

“Cullen!” Her hips jerk against air, a full bodied motion that brushes her nipples against his chest, her voice thick and desperate.

Breath hisses between his teeth as he holds his control with a spider silk thread. This is for her, for them. He will not just flip her onto the floor and fuck into her like an animal. Her radiance in pleasure is so much better than instantaneous satiation. He wants, beyond reason, to draw this time they have together out forever. “Yes?”

“Do that again.” Her palms brand his shoulders where she rests on him, nails scoring down when he does something particularly right. It electrifies him, small discomforts tangling with desire in the haze of power and eroticism as he draws a private hymn out of her, one stroke at a time.

Her hand drops from his shoulder, fumbles impatiently with the laces drawn tight over his imprisoned cock. Maker have mercy. Cullen draws on every shred of discipline he has to keep pressing his fingers into her sex-slicked cunt as she slips him free. Choking on a shout, his head falls back and he fights to breathe as she traces the pad of her thumb along the underside of his length. If he looks down, watches too-gentle hands run over him, he will be undone. Instead he looks up at the corona of tousled red hair falling into wild dark eyes that feast on him. What she finds in him pleases her, kiss swollen mouth turning up in smile.

A tilt of her hips brings them in contact, her lower lips slippery wet, warm, and perfect. His groan won’t be contained this time, but Evelyn matches it high and needy. Too impatient to torment him for long, she rubs against him twice more before aligning their bodies and sliding down with agonizing slowness. Chest heaving and lips parted, she sheathes him to the hilt and stills as though carved of stone. Her forehead comes to rest against his, breath comingling as she acclimates. Tentatively, still not fully certain that something like this is allowed, Cullen reaches up and smooths a few errant strands of hair out of her face.

Gentle pressure on the back of her neck guides her close enough to kiss once more. Evelyn sighs as he sucks lewdly on her lip, hips hiking in response and stuttering back down before settling into a slow-building rhythm. Cullen wanders his hands freely over pristine skin—unmarred by war if not untouched—soft and strong and somehow his. Her fingers tangle with his, leads him down her slender throat with hammering pulse, over the sharp line of collarbones, then to the swell of her breasts. Her smaller hand molds his around her flesh, shows him precisely what it is that she desires.  Under her tutelage, her nipple pebbles into a small dark peak, just begging for his touch. Cullen doesn’t need any further instruction, and Eve rasps throaty laugh that transmutes into a moan as he takes over, rolling her nipple lightly between his fingers. He leans in, rough stubble rasping the valley of her breastbone before taking her nipple into his mouth. It tastes like the rest of her skin, salt and musk, and she clamps down hard enough to make his vision swim. They rock together in harmony, cadence building towards a crescendo that drowns his senses. There is no world beyond the sacred circle of their arms, no keep, no politics, no void-taken war to keep them apart. Just her, rising and falling above him, gleaming with sweat, and the thundering of his heart.

Evelyn squirms like a serpent when he uses his teeth on her tender flesh, doing something complicated with her legs that has him pressing far deeper inside her without warning. She wrenches grunts from the bottom of his lungs as her hands brace on his knees, body arched back before him as the white silk slips off her shoulders and tangles around her wrists. He can see where his cock disappears inside her and the small nub of flesh just above. The vision sends him over the edge, unraveling the control he thought he had so well in hand. Balls tight, he holds on to himself just enough to get his hand in between them, two fingers pressing rough on either side of her clit. Her cunt clenches around him, holds like a vise as she fucks down, and he hopes it’s enough for her because he’s gone into a realm of roaring silence and whited out pleasure.

Cullen comes back to himself warm and languid, Evelyn sprawled boneless against his chest. Weeks of tension are gone from his shoulders, smoothed from her face and he presses his lips to her temple. There’s nothing he could say that would improve on what they have here, so he remains quiet, just watching her and listening to the distant summer sounds trickling in on the breeze.

A lazy smile curls her mouth and she peers up at him with half-drowsed eyes. “I was serious about the bath, you know. It wasn’t just a nefarious plot to get you out of your smalls.”

“I believe I’m still wearing mine.” Cullen says. After a quick glance around he locates the abandoned wine glasses and can just stretch far enough to snag the pair and reel them in without spilling any on the white cushions swallowing them both.

Evelyn clinks the lip of her glass to his and raises it to her lips. “Scheming isn’t my strong point.” With a saucy look over the rim she adds, “Though if that was something I was plotting, I wouldn’t discount it just yet.”

It’s ungentlemanly, but he snorts at the boldness of that lie and drinks with her. “Only a fool would bet against you.” It really is excellent wine, reminiscent of what had been on offer at the damnable Orlesian ball and he swallows it easily as the warmth of it diffuses under his skin.

Preening, Evelyn leans in and kisses him before climbing off. “It’s kind of you to say so. Bring the bottle when you’re ready to join me.”

Cullen watches her backside sway with every step across the room. She deftly maneuvers her wineglass and the fastenings on her gilded cuffs until she sheds the shirt and steps behind the screen. The only thing he desires more than not moving from this extraordinarily comfortable spot is to stay close, keep her in eyesight, so he stands, adjusts himself back into his breeches, grabs the green glass bottle, and follows.

“Put it there, please,” Evelyn gestures at a low shelf scattered with soaps and tinctures and Maker only knows what else before she returns her attention to the small red rune embedded in the side of the tub. Cullen tops off their glasses and obeys. His cup finds its home beside hers, partially protected under the rim of the bath, then strips down and climbs in. The water is just on the right side of scalding, rising well over his waist. Its unthinkable luxury compared to the quick scrub in a basin or a dip in a creek. Feeling this comfortable is something he should feel guilty for.

It turns out there is enough room for two, if one of them is a woman determined to make it work and utterly indifferent to water overflowing the rim. Evelyn finds it amusing enough for the both of them, at any rate, and soon distracts him with strong hands and a bar of perfumed soap. Bathing’s never been more than a rote part of military routine for him—no one wants to live in barracks with someone who smells like a piss bucket—but Evelyn has all sorts of fancy foreign ideas about utilizing different soaps and scours for a particularly thorough cleansing. There’s strength hidden in the slim hands that work herb-scented lather into his scalp (maybe a little restorative magic too, but she wouldn’t spell him against his will), the promise of protection and care as she scrubs behind his ears and down his shoulders. Cullen tips his head back and closes his eyes as hot water pours from her cupped hands over him, soap streaking down to float on the surface of the bath.

When he dashes water from his eyes, she’s retracting from a long stretch, a brown glass bottle snagged between her clever fingers. Evelyn is a talented instructor and Cullen’s education is comprehensive as she warms rose oil between her palms and shows him a thousand new sensitive places on his skin, soothing and enticing him by turns until he’s reeling and senseless. When he regains some semblance control over his limbs, its his turn to guide her back and reciprocate all the wonders she has unlocked for him.

He’s not going to be able to go near a rose garden again without having some kind of fit, but it will be more than worth it.

There are towels when they’re finished, soft and rough that leave him feeling like burnished scalemail, cleaner than he’s ever been in his entire life. The candles are snuffed for the night, and in the low glow of the banked fire, Evelyn pauses by her high bed and gives him a cautious look. She respects his space, his habits, his devotion to duty, and marks him as her equal in this thing they build together. He can all but hear the thoughts she won’t give voice to: this is the part where he says goodnight, that he’s stayed away from his responsibilities to her and the Inquisition too long already.

If Cullen cannot dedicate himself, mind and body, to her cause, what good is he?

And yet, everything the Inquisitor does pushes him to be more than just a cog in her military machine. She broke his lyrium chains for no one’s gain except his own, seeks him out for quiet moments of amusement and peace in the maelstrom of chaos and war that are their lives. She does not flinch from who he is or what he’s done, but has faith that he can be more than merely broken. Maker, she acts as though she loves him.

Sod duty as an excuse to make them both miserable. If Cullen has to sprint for the walls with nothing but his smallclothes and sword, so be it. That is not too much for him to give, not when he’s been blessed as her friend and lover. He will not make her ask for him twice. Evelyn lights up like the sun when he joins her, climbing under the fur coverlet and stretching out with a sigh. It’s softer than he’s used to, mattress sinking under his weight, and there’s something faintly claustrophobic about looking up at a stone ceiling that doesn’t have a hole in it. Still, he sends a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the small statue of Armored Andraste stalwart on the mantle with her miniature sword and shield as Evelyn climbs in beside him. Her cheek finds home pressed over his heart and she tugs him closer with an arm draped over his waist.

The thought of another round of sex tempts him, but she’s already drifting off and his body reminds him that he spent the whole day and a good part of the night marching up the Frostbacks. This peace won’t last forever, they will be up to face the new dawn in a few hours’ time. It will be better for them both if they sleep while they can. Pressing another kiss to her sweet smelling hair, he holds the Herald close and closes his eyes. Instead of the most desperate verses of the Trials that are his nightly devotion—crying out to a god who has all but turned his face from creation—tonight a bit of Victoria drifts through his thoughts before his mind slips into a quiet eddy of the Fade:

 _Now her hand is raised_  
_A sword to pierce the sun_  
_With iron she defends the faithful_ _  
_ Let chaos be undone


End file.
